


Empty Lies the Court

by Bastetmoon



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Throne Sex, angbang, dubcon, generally unhealthy everything, this couple is a disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:30:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bastetmoon/pseuds/Bastetmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon shuts his eyes and tells himself that this will be the last time. After all, that’s what he always says. Written for and cross-posted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Lies the Court

One finger traces along the delicate line of his jaw. Mairon shuts his eyes and tells himself that this will be the last time. After all, that’s what he always says.

  
“Look at me.” That familiar voice washes over him like dread and he lets his eyes flutter open. His master tips his chin up, almost as if this is some sort of examination. Mairon searches for any traces of warmth in that enigmatic gaze and failing to find it lets his own eyes trail across the twisting scars—like strands of white gossamer—that criss cross the proud face. Melkor’s lips twist back in a horrid grin. Upon his master’s face it can look nothing other than beautiful. Angelic. Both hands come to cup his chin, in some obscene mockery of affection. “After all, I do so love those pretty eyes of yours.”

  
Mairon trembles as Melkor rises from the black iron of his throne and he is pulled upward from his kneeling position to stand before the Lord of Angband. Black robes rustle, their silver threads glistening in the hallowed light given off by the light of the torches. Idly and ever so slow Melkors finger fiddle with the golden clasps that hold his lieutenants robes. Black hair cascades down around his face and Mairon resists the urge to tear his hands through it. A series of kisses pepper his lips and neck, scoring against his skin even as his master holds the power back behind his teeth. Warmth and arousal coil sickeningly in the base of Mairon’s stomach. His breath hisses as one of Melkor’s hands comes to rest there, palming him over the thin silk of his robe.

  
Teeth graze at his lips and a groan gurgles from Mairon’s throat, unbidden as it is unwelcomed.

  
“Strip for me.” The breath comes hot against his ear.

  
Melkor pulls away, glee dancing in those golden eyes. A whimper rips from Mairon’s throat at the lack of contact. Quickly he tries to quell it but already it has escaped his lips, curling and dissipating into the quiet air.

  
“My Lord please, I cannot.” His voice tempts at reason. But in this kingdom of ice and iron there is no reason and mercy is all but a hollow promise.  
“Oh Mairon,” Melkor purrs, his voice throbbing upon the air, “that was not a request. Take it off. Now.”

  
One of Mairon’s hands shakes as he raises it to his collar, to the first of the golden clasps that holds his robes together. That golden gaze is inscrutable as inch by inch the fabric falls away. With a whisper the robes fall to Mairon’s feet, congealing in a pool of vermilion and gold against the onyx of the floor. Cold air assaults his skin. The fortress is always cold, and the throne room is coldest of all with invisible drafts that raise gooseflesh where their icy breath touches. Standing there, completely bare, he quakes slightly. As ever his master’s eyes appraise him, flicking over the hardened planes of his stomach, the golden curls of his hair, and finally settling lower.  
One blackened finger stirs, tracing a circle in the air. Mairon swallows the lump threatening to rise in his throat. Slowly as he dares he turns, allowing his master to examine all of him. Shame burns upon his cheeks. When he once more faces his master he finds a cruel smile creeping its way across those scarred lips.

  
Marion reals in his degradation, turning his head away and keeping his gaze fixed upon the marble slabs of the floor. The blurry outline of himself looks back distorted in its imperfect mirror.

  
“Come here.” His master settles back into his throne with a grace belied by his bulk. Melkor extends a hand, gesturing for Mairon to come forward. Bare feet slap against the marble stone. Like a moth to a candle he stumbles forward.

  
Strong hands bring him downward to settle upon Melkor’s lap. Straddling his master’s legs he can feel the desire of the former, pressing hard and insistent against him beneath those black robes. A groan escapes Mairon’s lips as one of Melkor’s once more take him in hand.  
A dark chuckle escapes his master’s lips, lapping up against the twisting pillars and dark carven walls of the throne room in a thousand lascivious renditions. Far above a fading banner flutters, the only onlooker to their escapade.

  
“Have you lost your patience already little one?”

  
There is capriciousness in his voice that Mairon cannot—and never will—be able to fathom. After all it is easier when he is angry, is predictable.  
A finger reaches out to brush along his rib cage, tracing the line of an old scar and he shivers. A white sliver it stands out against his skin. Neither of them are unblemished as they once were. Ruined and mutilated, they bear the scars of eons upon Arda. His masters come from battle and warfare even as his own hands dealt so many that now grace his lieutenant. As lips begin to trace that old wound Mairon half wonders if his master remembers how he came by it. He himself will never forget. He remembers every single mark as if they were divine kisses.

  
The nip of teeth bring him spiraling back to the present. To the hot breath of his master against his skin. A languid sort of grace Melkor brings their lips together, capturing him with an ease born up of the millennia during which they have played this twisted game. Mairon knows better than to resist. Instead he lets his master draw him closers. One greyed hand covers his length. Artfully does his master draw moans from his throat. They spill from Mairon’s lips, dashing themselves wantonly against the marble floor.

  
But the pace his master has set is too slow and need presses Mairon forward to grind into Melkor’s palm.

  
“Not yet.” The voice hisses, “I would see you on your knees first little one.”

  
Docilely Mairon sinks down—because what’s the point of resistance now—resting his elbows upon his master’s knees. One hands draws open the folds of his master garments. As his mast sat it was for Mairon to set the pace. He did so leisurely, using his tongue in every way he knew his master liked best.

  
Strong hands knot at his hair, tugging at his head in eager instance.

  
“Little one.” His master croons his name and Mairon meets his gaze with a fevered intensity. In the shadows Melkor’s pupils are two black spots, voids that devour the gold about them in their lust. With a careful tug at his scalp Mairon is withdrawn and his master left glistening with a film of saliva. He shifts back, sitting on his haunches like the wolves he loves so dearly—a dog at the feet of his lord.

  
Gracefully his master rises, casting off his robes completely so that they crumple in waves of black silk and silver and flow to the floor like oil. Strong hands lift Mairon, spinning him round and pressing him down into the iron seat. The metal is cold against his buttocks, unyielding in its substance. As his body is maneuvered backwards he can feel the prickle of the barbed metal against his arm.

  
Melkor’s tongue swirls at Mairon’s nipples, teeth occasionally offering a slight nip, even as his fingers draw those pale thighs apart. And oh it is exquisite, how the low moans gurgle up from his throat, head tossed back so that his hair falls like a gold cloud about his shoulder. He can feel his master press up against him, and that dark head rises to whisper soft against his ear.

 

“How does it feel little one? To sit upon the throne of all Beleriand?”

  
Mairon might have answered but at that moment his master pushed into him and he could think of no more words to speak. Instead he clung like a child to Melkor’s form as he was rocked back and forth with each thrust. He could not help but gasp when his maser brushed up against that superb feeling inside him. Caught in the midst of his ecstasy Mairon could not be sure what debased things slithered forth from his mouth, pooling like a cloud around them. It seemed to him that the world had shrunken to encompasses only them two as they played out their diversions in the most grotesque and splendid ways.

  
Upon the great throne in the midst of the silent court Melkor whispers depravities into his lieutenant’s ears though the meaning escaped him. And in that vacant place amid the endless shadows Mairon was undone.

  
Through the fan of eyelashes he watched the darkness chase itself across the many vaults of the engraved ceiling as his master’s weight settled against him. Breath came heavy and jagged in his ear as both their heart beats thudded back to their usual pace. One blackened hand whispered across the plane of his cheek, coming to rest beneath his chin, cupping it.

  
Through lidded eyes Mairon saw his master’s face. Those golden eyes crackled as if electricity burned within them.

  
“My lord…” The words linger at the tip of his tongue, “…why?”

  
A lazy smile drifts across Melkor’s proud face. “Oh Mairon,” He runs his thumb across the pale skin of his lieutenant’s cheek, so that his eyelashes tickle the skin. “You do have such pretty eyes.”

  
Mairon cannot bring himself to respond as Melkor continues to caress his face, instead he lets his gaze drift upward, lashing creeping lower over his field of vision. Idly he watched the flicker of the torches upon the walls, their little lights like an island in the darkness of the hall.

  
_The last time._


End file.
